


Doctor Watson and the Bangalore Tiger

by abundantlyqueer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-17 18:18:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12371343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer





	1. Chapter 1

The first time John sees the Tiger Cub, the boy is brought to the infirmary slung in a bloodstained ground sheet carried by four stricken riflemen, trailed by half a dozen civilians and several camp dogs.

John gestures to the nearest cot, stripping his shirtsleeves up onto his tanned forearms and shouting for Murray. The riflemen deposit their burden on the cot; the ground sheet falls open to reveal blood and khaki and pale golden hair.

“Get them out,” John says to Murray, jerking his chin to indicate the civilians, and then – addressing the riflemen, “ _one_ of you may stay and tell me what happened.”

He’s beginning to make sense of what he’s seeing – clotted blood, torn flesh, and dirt, from the boy’s hairline to the chest of his uniform tunic. 

“The subaltern-sahib’s bullet wounded the tiger, here,” says the rifleman who stands his ground, thudding his fist into his own shoulder. “But he missed the heart – this boy who has never missed a shot, who could take a quail on the wing before his voice broke.”

Murray reappears at John’s side with a tin basin of water and a white cloth. John nods approval, sops the cloth, and soaks the side of the boy’s face.

“The tiger went down into the road ditch, into the drain – that such a monster could squeeze itself into such a stricture,” the rifleman goes on. “And my boy – he was born without fear – went after it. I would have told him _no_ , but it is not for me to order him – and he would hardly have listened to such an order from the colonel-sahib himself. I would have followed him, but I could not fit.”

Blood- and dirt-swirled water splatters on the ground sheet, runs down, and soaks into the dry ground. John hisses his breath in, surveying the open tear from the boy’s forehead to his jaw.

“The eye is still there,” John murmurs in surprise.

“If it was a tiger, it’s a wonder his head is,” Murray says.

“It was the demon’s dying breath,” the rifleman grimaces. “We heard a shot inside the drain, and the tiger’s roar, and only then my boy gave a shout – but short, for it is not in him to yield to pain. Then nothing – we called to him, and after a time he crawled to the mouth of the drain, dragging himself, his blood all around him.”

His voice breaks, and he takes the loose end of his turban and draws it across his face to hide his distress.

“We can clean this as well as we can and stitch it up,” John says to Murray, “but with the tiger’s claw and the mud and whatever filth was in the drain, we’re going to have a fight with the fever for him.”


	2. Chapter 2

The second time John sees him is three years later, on a warm autumn evening among the hills.

The 66th are going north only as far as the border station, but they have been gathered up in the great train of battalions en route to the passes into the mountains. The hillside is covered in tents – most army regulation dun but some brightly colored – and countless cooking fires trail gray smoke up into the clear, still air. The sun is sinking behind the western hilltops, slanting golden rays of light across the stony ground.

The Indians and enlisted men are eating around the fires, throwing curses and lamb gristle in equal measure to the camp dogs circling skittishly. Murray has just finished buttoning John into his mess tunic – fastidiously brushed but crumpled, and redolent of aged sweat under the arms – when a group of horsemen appears around the side of the hill, moving fast.

The riders are robed and veiled; the horses are rough-coated, sure-footed on the uneven ground. John watches as they approach, reining in around the colonel’s tent nearby. One rider swings down himself from his wooden saddle and throws his reins to one of his companions. He sweeps the folds of cloth from his head and shoulders, revealing shaggy hair of a peculiarly flat, grayish brown, clear blue eyes, and a jagged red scar running from his forehead to his jaw on the left side of his face.

“Good God, it’s you,” John says aloud. “You’re alive.”

The young man has started towards the colonel’s tent, but he stops short, staring at John.

“I’m sorry – I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he says, his voice light but his gaze sharp.

“I’m John Watson,” John says. “I was the surgeon at Gatmana, when they brought you in.”

The young man’s expression softens, turns to a slight, quirked smile.

“Then I am in your debt,” he says, coming closer and extending his hand. “Thank you.”

They clasp hands. 

“I did not know what had become of you,” John says. “I had to leave before it was clear if you would - ”

“ – live or die,” the young man supplies. “Well, that’s never terribly clear, at all.”


End file.
